


the day's beginning

by bookhousegirl



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Boston Bruins, Crushes, Getting to Know Each Other, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-19
Updated: 2017-05-19
Packaged: 2018-10-31 13:17:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10900140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookhousegirl/pseuds/bookhousegirl
Summary: Everything looks different from six hundred thirty feet above the earth. It has to.On a lonely January day on the road in St. Louis, Brandon Carlo grows up.





	the day's beginning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sphesphe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sphesphe/gifts).



> So this is pretty gen and I’m sorry there’s not more captain/rookie sexiness here (but I think that possibility is open). I’m REALLY hoping you like it. 
> 
> This fic is based on Brandon Carlo’s attempt to visit the Gateway Arch in St. Louis when the Bruins were on the road (as in episode 8 of Season 4, Behind the B). Brandon wasn’t able to go up due to construction, but let’s pretend he did. Just a note, the Bruins have two players with the nickname Millsy, the one referenced in this fic is Colin Miller.
> 
> Thanks to the usual suspects for helping me tease out this idea and nodding appropriately along when I came up with this on the fly. Thank you to the mods for running this great exchange again!
> 
> Title from Atlantic, by Keane.

 

Brandon is dreaming.

 

It’s Colorado. Except it’s not, the way in all dreams he’s both utterly certain of where he is _and_ knows that it’s nothing he’s ever seen before. He’s on a ski lift, facing back, being dragged up an endless mountain that is drenched in snow. Flurries swirl around his face and he dangles his ski pole dangerously out when a terrible gust of wind shakes the cables. Whatever this mountain is, he can’t see the bottom, he can't see anything except for a flight of blackbirds that takes off from an enclave of pine trees toward the sky.

 

“I’m scared,” he says to Z, who is sitting next to him.

 

“I’m here,” Z answers.

 

When Z turns and kisses Brandon, it’s a shock and, like all things about dreams, it’s not. Brandon opens his mouth after the first chaste press or two, encouraging, because it’s sweet and tender, and it feels really really good. Their tongues brush when Z clasps the back of Brandon’s neck, drawing him in, to deepen the kiss. He’s worried about falling off the lift if he moves too much, worried that he’ll send them spiraling to a snowy death, but Z moves his kisses to Brandon’s neck and jaw, and holds them in place.

 

When he wakes way ahead of his alarm, he can only remember fragments, something about being in Colorado and drinking coffee in his parents’ kitchen. He’s hard and strangely turned on. Whatever he’s been dreaming about must have been nice, or nicer than just a usual morning at home. Pulling aside the blackout curtains reveals a view of the Arch, still lit up silvery blue and stunning against the midnight sky. He looks for a moment, then trudges to the bathroom to pee and swish some water around his mouth before throwing himself back on the bed face first.

 

The air is chilly and he wraps the down comforter around his legs. He fumbles for his headphones and presses his ambient noise app, hoping the sound of wind and snow rushing through trees will help him fall back into it.

 

***

 

After three sharp raps from Brandon that leave his knuckles pink, Pasta finally peeks through the sliver of space between the door and frame and smiles widely. When he remembers to pull back the metal arm that’s keeping the door from opening, Brandon can see that Pasta is definitely not dressed for anything more than lounging around watching Stepbrothers on the hotel’s cable all day.

 

“You’re not ready.” Brandon states the obvious before glancing down at his watch. It’s only a few minutes to get over to the Arch, but he wants to be in line right away. He’s trying to keep from being upset, but this is not the first time either.

 

“It’s so early,” Pasta moans, flopping back onto the unmade bed. “The arch will be there later, like in the afternoon, you know? Also, Krej wants to get breakfast, and I want, so.” He trails off and thumbs at the waistband of his flannel boxers, not meeting Brandon’s eyes.

 

“You’re bailing.”

 

It’s hard to be mad when Pasta looks sheepish and content. “It’s so early,” he whines again and Brandon tosses a brocade throw pillow at him.

 

Next door, Austin is not in a much better state, although he at least had the decency to put a shirt on. “I think we were going to go down to the pool first,” Austin says, rubbing his eyes with his fist.

 

“And then a huge breakfast,” Frank supplies from the bed, where he’s lying on his back, balancing a pillow on one foot. “I need bacon. And those crispy potatoes.”

 

“Those things are good.” Austin agrees, with a half-hearted shrug towards Brandon, as if he has no defense when it comes to crispy potatoes or the will of a hungry Frank Vatrano.

 

“Eggs, with that delicious sauce, it’s all like creamy and so bad for you.”

 

“The sauce is incredible, I swear to god.”

 

“You could come with, and then we’ll all go,” says Frank, at last talking to him instead of rhapsodizing over breakfast foods with Austin like an idiot.

 

Brandon narrows his eyes. “We’re all supposed to go now.”

 

“I mean, I’ve seen it before,” confesses Austin, bearing his teeth in a mix of a grin and grimace, like he needs to seem embarrassed to appease Brandon. “I was going for you guys. It’s just a big bunch of metal in the sky.”

 

“If you’re trying to talk me out of it you just sound like a complete dick,” Brandon says, without any force. Austin’s the least dick of a person in the world, he knows that.

 

“Sorry!” Frank calls out, a weak attempt that doesn’t sound sorry at all. Brandon slams the door as hard as he can. Frank definitely can be a dick.

 

He takes the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator, lunging down them two at a time, and almost slips because his shoes are new and the stairwell has been mopped this morning. His mom will want a picture, so he’ll have to get some random tourist to take one of him at the bottom and the top. It’s like the other days in the other cities on the road - he’s hardly ever been out of Colorado, and then only to play in western towns in literally the middle of nowhere, so he likes to see stuff when he has the chance. The lines and angles at the top of the Empire State building and the old world charm of the port in Montreal, he’s seen them all on his own, after promises from Pasta and Millsy and others gave way to mindless hours of tv or shit talking.

  
  
Sometimes he feels very grown up, standing on the platform of the right subway line and only getting lost once, or riding in his own cab and handing over cash from his wallet without worrying or thinking. That’s part of the fun, not being forced into anyone else’s agenda. The song and dance is the same when other people bail, like today, but eventually he gets to it: dropping coins into the viewfinder to see the buildings of Manhattan, or shivering a little in the damp air as he looks at Quebec’s majestic cathedrals, daydreaming about silly things, like when he’ll have someone to follow him without asking, like Austin does for Frank.

 

 

The road is lonely, others have said, and it was hard to believe at first, with friends in the room next door, and being crammed onto a plane for four hours with a teammate in each possible space. Everybody up in each other’s business, knowing odd habits like how Marchy never wears socks if he can help it and sometimes sleeps on the floor of the plane, or how Nasher and Dom can spend hours chirping over the same boring crossword, like they’re working on some vital national secret. He doesn’t have someone yet, not really, who is familiar like that, who knows his little quirks or shares a weird special interest or remembers how he likes his coffee.

 

It’s all part of the experience though, building that companionship, and he’s up for it. It’s coming. He likes Jimmy’s full body-crushing hugs, and how Backes shows pictures of his dogs to anyone who expresses an iota of interest. He likes how Z chose him after Marchy for the escape room. How the captain is also the kindest person on the team.

 

*** 

 

The Gateway Arch opens for visitors at nine o’clock in the winter, and he makes it there to be part of the first group going in. Down below the arch itself, the waiting area is gray and dark, cavernous and industrial.

 

“Hey,” someone on his left says, close to his ear, and he’s about to turn and apologize for taking up too much space or something, when he sees that it’s Z.

 

“Hey,” he says back after a pause where he tries to get his mouth to work again. It’s totally unexpected, and he’s not sure why, because he doesn’t _know_ Z at all or what it means to have expectations off the ice about his captain. But it feels like an accident, one of those random out of place things, like seeing your teacher shopping at the mall on a weekend.

 

“Going up?”

 

“I can’t wait. I’ve wanted to see it for...forever basically.”

 

Z companionably knocks against Brandon’s elbow. “You’ll like it,” he says with confidence, just the same way he says _I liked how you turned up the strong side there_ or _Keep the breakout simple this next shift._

 

“You’ve seen it before, though.” Brandon stuffs his hands in the pockets of his peacoat while they wait to board the trams that will take them to the top.

 

“Not in a while. It’s sometimes hard to do anything on an off day other than work out and eat. I don’t sightsee a lot anymore.”

 

“But you decided to, today.”

 

Z smiles and gives him an amused look. “I decided to, today.”

 

Brandon bites his lip for a second. “I _am_ going to work out later with Millsy, I think.”

 

“I’m not here to police you, Brandon,” Z says mildly. “You work hard. You deserve to have fun too.”

 

The tram appropriately looks like a futuristic pod when the doors creak open. The doors barely separate, so they both have to maneuver through the small space to get inside the cramped pod. He sits carefully next to Z, but when another guy and his girlfriend push in, he gets jostled and Z falls against the back wall. “Sorry!” he apologizes quickly.

 

Z lets out a mock yelp and then laughs. “Ah be careful I’m old!” he cries. “Now I know how opposing players feel when you deliver a big hit!”

 

The joke is kind of lame, it feels like they both know that, but Brandon laughs anyway. With tips on the ice, and celebration hugs after scoring, advice about talking to the press or working out differences with teammates, Z shares with him. And it’s nice, to share back, to show he appreciates the attempt, even if it’s a dorky joke. Pasta would roll his eyes and fondly snark, “Dad joke,” the way he does with Krej. He supposes Z _would_ have dad jokes, that makes sense, but Brandon never thinks of him that way. Dads never roar with this much competitiveness, or tutor him like they were passing a torch, vital and sacred.

 

“What things have you liked the most so far, when you’ve gotten to explore?” Z asks, as the tram lurches to the side and Brandon grips his seat to keep from tipping over again.

 

“I mean, I’ve never been to New York City before, so it was fun to see how busy everything is, and all the people. And in Florida, all the palm trees, everything is so relaxed.”

 

“Like permanent spring break.”

 

“Yeah.” The tram jerks again, and Brandon can hear the wind outside the doors, just beyond the steel. He shivers, and has to lean in to say, “I found this awesome place to eat in Detroit the last time. They had really good coffee and these super cool salads. And the mac and cheese was to die for.”

 

“Well you have to take me there next time,” says Z, with his voice full of warmth.

 

Brandon has to look at his hands so he doesn’t smile too much, because he’s never been so glad not to be alone.

 

***

 

Everything looks different from six hundred thirty feet above the earth. It has to.

  

The windows aren’t huge, they’re not floor to ceiling. They’re these slim rectangular cut-outs, only about six on each side, and he doesn’t know why he expected them to be different, or to offer more. But the view isn’t a disappointment - to the east the Mississippi River looks cold and drab, with dark colored bridges hoisted across it, and to the west the whole city of St. Louis opens up below. He tries to take a few pictures of the turquoise state house dome and the baseball stadium off to the left.

 

“Look at how well you can see those people, even from up this high,” Brandon marvels. “I feel like if there were a game in right now I would be able to see the players on the field, the pitcher and the catcher and everybody.”

 

“Yeah, it’s wild,” Z agrees.

 

“Bird’s eye view?” He knows what the saying is, but poses it as a question anyway.

 

“I wonder,” Z considers, as he moves to the next set of tiny windows. “Birds might not even recognize this. It’s what they always see, you know?”

 

“I know,” Brandon replies, excitedly. “When I was a kid, we had this train set and it would go in a loop around a miniature town. It had all the buildings, a bank and a skating rink and a church. There were all these fine details that you could see perfectly, like a candle in a window of a house or the tiny angel ornaments on the Christmas tree. This reminds me of that.” He turns to Z and he didn’t realize that Z had moved right next to him. “To see all this from up here, it’s perfect.”

 

Z doesn’t look at him when he says, “You’re high up enough, you can’t see any of the flaws. If someone saw me from up here they wouldn’t know that I’m any older than you.” His eyes remain fixed on the stadium and the cars, something far away.

 

Z isn’t old, not really. Talking to Z isn’t like talking to his parents, who are most definitely _old._ He’s more experienced, sure, and he has everything that comes along with that: wisdom and generosity and perspective. Without a beard, you can’t even see the gray flecks on his still smooth face and in his thinning hair. His eyes are still bright and warm, and if they’ve got a few laugh lines at the corners, that’s even better because it means he’s lived a life where things have made him happy.

 

“I never think about that,” he says to Z, trying to sound mature enough to say something like that without coming off as childish or naive. “And even if I did, it’s not a flaw, it’s  _you_.”

 

Z smiles then and his eyes definitely crinkle around the edges. “Thanks Brandon.”

 

The top of the arch was crowded at first, but people have begun to dissipate and go back down in the trams. They could spread out to take in different views, but Brandon stays fixed by Z.

 

“Austin and Pasta are going to be sorry they missed this,” he says, keeping his voice low. There’s some magic being spun here, some wonderful hushed web that he doesn’t want to break by speaking or even breathing. “This seems like so much more than just a bunch of metal in the sky.”

 

“I think it’s a lot more than that. It’s a whole new view of the world.”

 

Z is standing so close, he has to stop from reaching out to touch, his hand traveling involuntarily out like a magnet, towards Z’s long neck and where his ear peaks out from his black knit winter hat. Beneath his fingers, there’s an ugly slab of concrete, creating a barrier between their bodies and the window, and he presses his hands flat so he doesn’t do something so stupid right now.

 

Brandon’s breath fogs the thin rectangle of glass as he looks out. He rubs his thumb over the condensation and sees himself staring back. He knows how he looks: tall and strong and put together, with a fancy watch and a nice coat and designer shoes. The kind of guy people notice. Someone might guess he was a decade older than being barely old enough to drive. He feels so much younger than he looks most of the time.  

 

The magic does break, only momentarily, when Z taps a woman in a Blues winter classic hat on the shoulder and asks, “Can you take a picture of us?” while handing over his phone.

 

Brandon tucks in beside Z, his fingers settled lightly on Z’s hip. They’re as close to the same height as anyone can really get, it would be easy to kiss, just a slight turn of the head. It wouldn't be awkward and forced, the way it is with most people, and he forgets to smile, forgets to _breathe_ , when he feels Z touch their heads together lightly for the photo.

 

“It’s great,” Z pronounces, angling the phone so Brandon can see. “I’ll send it to you.”

 

On the way down the Arch, they get the tram to themselves, and this time Z is quiet. He keeps looking at his phone and Brandon suddenly feels badly that his presence probably extended this excursion and that there were a lot things Z needed to attend to that didn’t involve making Brandon feel better or less alone. He’s about to say something about it when Z breaks in.

 

“Everything up there did look perfect.” Z smiles again and Brandon can see he’s been looking at their picture. “But I like this view of the world a lot too.”

 

It’s a compliment, but not like one that Brandon has ever heard. JoeMo might comment  _hey, sick shoes kid_ while barely glancing up from his phone, or Millsy would scream  _beautiful fucking goal_ _baby_  in his face. He’s not sure what Z means, what _any_ of this means except that Z likes him and is trying to say that. Inside the little tram, it feels like all the air has been sucked out of his lungs, like taking a huge hit and trying to skate on. His insides feel lit up. He’s never felt more like a grownup before.

 

*** 

 

The wind is blowing and it’s still so cold, so they hustle back to the hotel. Right before Brandon is about to fling open the lobby dooor, Z locks his hand around the edge of Brandon’s coat and his fingers graze the soft inside of Brandon’s wrist. He’s able to reach out, able to do the thing that Brandon couldn’t, and his hands are so big.

 

“I’m sorry your friends let you down. Next time we’re on the road, text me if you’re going to go sightsee on your own. I’ll go with you,” says Z, looking somehow soft and young against the gray sky. He squeezes Brandon’s hand and waves off then, to answer an incoming call.

 

Back in his room, Brandon wears a path from the bed to the bathroom and back. He refolds everything in his suitcase and repacks it, and then flips through the channels on the television, finally settling on an old episode of Suits. Maybe because he was so high up in the sky, he feels a little ungrounded, like every foot he sets down now isn’t quite right.

 

Team dinner is in an hour, so he turns on the shiny taps between hot and cold and lets the frigid bathroom steam up. His phone pings and he checks it quickly. He sees the picture of him, huddled in close next to Z in the Arch.

 

_Had a great time with you :)_

 

In the shower there is an unwarranted wave of desire in his gut. He runs a soapy hand over his stomach and down to his half-hard dick. Once he heard that if you jack off before a big date you’ll feel more relaxed because your body will have some release. It might’ve been from a movie or something one of his dumbass friends said. But he’s on a narrow boundary, like standing on an arch in the sky. All kinds of nerves and anxiety race through his body full throttle, and it might be best to let some of this tension out.

 

As he closes his eyes and lets his head loll forward, he tries not to think about a big hand on his wrist or how he feels so close to someone who shouldn’t have anything in common with him, who’s twice his age. Someone who is probably really good at stuff like this, and not too shy to say if he wants a tight fist wrapped around his dick to fuck into or if he wants it loose and fast and easy.

 

Has Z ever let someone fuck him? Would he let Brandon, would he beg him even, to go slow and make it so achingly good, to finally let him come after teasing closer and closer to the edge. Brandon moans through his orgasm, wracked with thoughts of Z pressed against the beige mosaic shower wall, and he has to sit down in the tub, his legs still wobbly and flimsy beneath him.

 

A bunch of texts roll in, from his mom, who is excited for the game, and from some friends in Colorado. Austin sends a video of Pasta doing an illegal backflip into the pool while everyone cheers. He laughs, but his thumb keeps swiping back to the picture he saved from Z’s text, just the two of them.

 

“What’s going on?” asks Millsy, when he comes to Brandon’s room to collect him for dinner.

 

“What?” Brandon frowns and slips his phone into his jacket pocket.

 

Millsy screws up his nose and eyebrows, and shoves him into the wall, like he’s a friend from home, or a barely older sibling, and they’re playing around. “Quit smiling,” he says. “Your face is fucking annoying.”

 

***

 

“Trip to the arch went okay?” asks Pasta, elbowing him. “Sorry I couldn’t go with you at the last minute. Krej, you know?” Pasta leans in with a whisper, “He needs me.”

 

It’s said like a joke, and it mostly is, but Brandon sees the twitchiness at the corners of Pasta’s bright smile, the way he errantly spins his fork. The way you say something just because you want to say it, like trying it on for size, to see how it sits, whether it feels right.

 

Brandon nods. He takes a breadstick and munches on the end before passing the basket to Austin, who’s waiting impatiently on his right. “It’s okay,” he says, and he means it now. “I enjoyed it on my own better anyway.”

 

“Oh nice, why you gotta be an asshole?” Pasta spits out, but he’s laughing at the same time. “I said sorry!”

 

Austin smirks and repeats, “It’s just a big bunch of metal in the sky, you know.”

 

Under the table, a foot lightly nudges against his. Normally he would blush and move his foot away, like it had been both an accident and his own fault. But he raises his eyes and sees Z smile at him for a second over his salad. And suddenly nothing today seems like an accident. It’s all just right, like he has permission to feel everything that has been spinning around wildly in his head for the last few hours.

 

So Brandon smiles too. “I think it’s a lot more than that,” he says back, sounding adult, trying out those words, at least to start with.

  
Right now, he’s in close, myopic. It’s hard to see the flaws from here, this whole new view of the world.

 

***

 

The day is beautiful in February, because in Southern California, that’s what all days are like. It might be Brandon’s favorite place he’s been this year. At ten in the morning, the clouds are rolling off, letting the sun heat things up, and Brandon gets to wear just a tshirt and jeans, so he doesn’t mind waiting.

 

“Hey, look who it is,” Frank says, with a little edge. Spoons and Millsy trail not far behind. "You too busy to answer your texts now?”

 

Brandon laughs. “No, sorry. I just got sidetracked after we got in last night.”

 

“We had to stop to get Millsy caffeinated, but we’re probably going to hit up the beach after breakfast, maybe the pier. Want to come?” Frank leans back against the railing where Brandon has been waiting, and stretches out his arms in the sun.

 

Spoons interjects. “Word of caution, ‘breakfast’ means In-n-Out.”

 

“Thanks guys. I’ve got other plans. But I’ll see you around later?”

 

Frank tips his Bruins cap and the group saunters off, joking and play fighting each other and looking at their phones. They are just out of view when Z comes out of the cafe, balancing a cardboard tray with two cups and a white paper bag from the bakery.

 

“Got you a flat white, and a croissant,” Z holds up the bakery bag with a grin. He hands Brandon the coffee and puts his hand at the small of Brandon’s back, to lead him past the other cafe patrons who are crowding the sunny sidewalk, trying to get in. “Hey, you can go with Spoons and Millsy if you want.”

 

Brandon shakes his head. This is the first time since St. Louis that they’ve gotten to spend a morning together on the road. Sometimes the trips have too quick a turn-around, back to Boston in the blink of an eye, sometimes there’s no time for seeing the sights and they just eat, sleep, and practice. Sometimes, thank god not regularly, his mom is along. Today they've got time. “I’m good with just you,” he says. “Let’s take a walk, maybe we’ll see something cool.”

 

“Okay,” Z agrees, in a voice that’s a little disbelieving, like spending time alone is just as much a surprise to him too. He takes a sip of his coffee and reaches back with his free hand, wiggling his fingers as if to say _come on_.

 

Brandon grasps lightly, loosely, enjoying the feel of Z’s hand in his, and the stretch of time before them, as they cross over the next street, golden and quiet in the morning, ready to start the day.

**Author's Note:**

> Brandon did score a goal in the game against the Blues the next day, perhaps inspired by his captain?
> 
> Thanks you so much for reading, I really appreciate it!.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [all i ever dreamed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14230437) by [taxingme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/taxingme/pseuds/taxingme)




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